


Lance Of Sure Hit

by UnlimitedLostWorks



Category: Fate/EXTRA, Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 10:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11439135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnlimitedLostWorks/pseuds/UnlimitedLostWorks
Summary: Rin Tohsaka and Lancer win their first battle in the Moon Cell with ease, even if they never managed to find out the name of that strange Archer.





	Lance Of Sure Hit

For a moment there is almost a silence in the arena, devoid of all sounds but laboured breathing, the pitter-patter of blood, and the scraping sounds of sword moving against sword, metal against bone. The black-clad Archer can do little but grimace as the countless swords hiding just beneath his skin begin to shift and twist within him, replacing what has been torn open with lattices of sharp iron. From across the concrete (how fitting, thinks the black-clad Archer, that his first and last battlefield in this pathetic excuse for a Holy Grail War takes the form of a broken, burning cityscape. Does this overgrown computer have a sense of humour?) the blue Lancer watches him with an inscrutable, almost curious expression.

He does not know the name of the Archer; there wasn't even a scrap of information that could help uncover his identity. He does not know it, but it was a futile exercise on the part of his master, for the Archer has no name to discern. And yet, the Lancer feels something tugging at the edge of his mind. He knows this strange dark-skinned man, recognises the glint of bloodstained swords as they attempt to fulfill a role they were never designed for, patching up wounds. There is something about his weapons he dislikes, something distinctly improper about something that can be used to kill people so easily and quickly from a distance. There is no thought to it. It takes no skill to fire a gun, so there is no skill to respect in using them. At least a bow takes proper training, knowledge of the weapon. He makes as much known to the black-clad Archer, in the momentary pause before the battle begins anew.

"Oi, Archer. I don't know what kind of Spirit you are, but are you sure you're meant to be in a Knight class? Your weapons seem more like the cowardly tools of an Assassin. Where's your pride as a hero?"

The black-clad Archer laughs, even if his breath is stained with the taste of his own blood. The Lancer is a better fighter than him, that is clear. In the first place, this kind of arena is favourable to a close-ranged warrior like him. For his part, Archer identified the Lancer the very first time he saw him, the moment he saw that spear, currently slung atop his shoulders. The bloody bones of a great Phantasmal Beast, carved into a weapon of sure hit. Gae Bolg, The Thorn of Death. There are only three heroes who can lay claim to that weapon, and the Lancer is most definitely not the Witch or the Pup. No, he is the Hound, the greatest warrior of Ireland. Cu Chulainn.

He feels a strange certainty in his heart, the twin of the Lancer's. He has met this Heroic Spirit before. He has been pierced by this spear before. The curse of sure death that weapon carries has already affected him. The black-clad Archer's memories may be as ruined as his body, but this he is sure of. He does not remember his own name, but he remembers the kiss of the Thorn of Death. As sure as he knows this, he is sure of one more thing. He will die here. He is nothing but a fake, a hollow imitation of a Hero, filled to bursting with weaponry and not much else. Absent of the proper ideals of a hero of justice, he has nothing but his desire to live to protect himself. Unfortunately, it seems he was not burdened with that particular desire. It came with putting a bullet through "Desire", he supposed, but it was troublesome, all the same.

His master would die with him. Archer found himself unable to care. Another Magus convinced of his own superiority, not even intelligent enough to recognise he had summoned a wretched creature far below the stature of a Heroic Spirit. He would die, and that was some comfort to the Archer. Ah, but he couldn't just give up completely, could he? The Lancer loved nothing more than a proper fight, he remembered that much. As such, he does not respond to the spearman's taunt. Instead, he snaps open the revolver in his hand, and began to chant.

"--I am the bone of my sword."

The Lancer's breath catches in his mouth and he charges forward, the warrior that he has carved himself into recognising the sheer killing intent that radiates from the Archer with those words. He raises his spear, not enough time to leap forth and throw it, or even get into the proper stance. A sloppy use of his teacher's gift, but it doesn't matter. He knows, at least, that this Archer does not have the Luck to avoid such a strike.

"So as I pray, Unlimited Lost Works--"  
"--Gae Bolg!"

The bullet, forged from swords and hatred, leaves the chamber, and yet it does not. A record scratch in the fabric of reality, and the gun, still loaded and primed, drops from the Archer's hand as he stumbles forward, only impaling himself further on the crimson spear. If that bullet had hit the Lancer, if the mental word of that rotting Archer had blossomed within his body, the spear of sure hit would not have struck true. As such, the spear had created a new future, one in which it's curse could come to pass; the bullet had never been fired, and the spear had pierced the Archer's heart. There is a painful sound, the spines adorning the spear's length catching and grinding against the myriad blades that make up the Archer's body.

The Archer looks briefly at the Lancer's master, even as his body begins to erase itself, the data that makes up "The Nameless Archer in black" expunged from the Moon Cell's memory. She is familiar, he thinks, so familiar, and yet somehow a stranger. Perhaps in another life he knew her, or someone like her. As for the Lancer, he has one thing to say, one thing before he fades away completely.

"Take your pride and feed it to the dogs, Hound of Ulster."

A smile, one of blood and teeth and steel, and he is gone.


End file.
